


Stukie

by TokyoDAZE



Series: The Pet Name Incidents [1]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Hamburg Era, M/M, Multi, Oral, Pet Names, Teasing, Threesome, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoDAZE/pseuds/TokyoDAZE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly, his lips tighten around the circumference of the pretty boy’s throbber. Paul’s breath hitches, and Stuart finds himself doing more work than before—he’s breaking into a sweat now, and he feels flushed and humiliated to the last strand of his hair. But something about all this seems almost rewarding.</p><p>Then he remembers John Lennon is still doing his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stukie

Stuart Fergusson Victor Sutcliffe.

Stuart F. V. Sutcliffe.

Stuart Sutcliffe.

Stuart.

Stu.

It felt like these names for that pitiful artist always seemed too stiff. Even if you just call out “Stu!” to get his attention, you might as well be saying “Mister Stuart Fergusson Victor Sutcliffe!” out loud. It was such a shame, and was no fun, especially if you were enemies. Well, not in a deadly manner. That little twat would eventually become numb to mainstream insults like “cunt” or “dipshit”, but using his actual name felt like too much respect. Respect he didn’t fucking deserve. Certainly there had to be some middle ground. Somewhere that could insult him, humiliate him, him and only him. A special new title.

That’s what Paul and John silently agreed on, anyway. It didn’t matter just how bloody brilliant and independent Stuart was. To Paul, especially, he was small and pathetic and the fact that the bass he could just barely play was about as big as he was didn’t help in the slightest. That raw artistic talent that flowed from his small, nimble fingers was worth nothing on stage. His new exi haircut made him look even more disgusting than he was to begin with. _James Dean of Hamburg my ass._ It made him look like a fucking bird, if anything; even more than himself. Just pop some tits on there and you’d have yourself a pretty good show.

John smiled coldly, gripping an almost-empty glass of beer tightly in his calloused left hand. Tipsy, but not drunk yet, he rocked back and forth on the barstool, glancing over his shoulder. Through his thick lenses, he eyed Stuart Fergusson Victor Sutcliffe sitting alone on the side of the stage not too far from him. Having played for just about eight hours straight, everyone was bruised and battered after every gig. Not Stu. Actually, he always was in worse condition—if the rest of them were exhausted, Stuart would be dizzy and nauseous and on the verge of collapsing. He was just so pathetic—this rock ‘n roll lifestyle was obviously not his cup of tea. John snorted, taking the last gulp of his liquor. Stuart had his head buried in his palms, looking so pale and fragile and sickly thin. John almost felt sorry for the poor thing. He would most definitely look healthier if he took care of himself more. Maybe spending more time with Astrid, the new bird, was the key.

Key…

… Stu…

… Key…

Suddenly, like a muse, something lit up in John’s mind.

And before he could register his thoughts, it was out of his mouth and in the air.

“ _Stukie_.”

The artist had to take time to process the new identity, but he eventually lifted his head and looked at John, blinking slowly. “Are you… talking to me?”

“Hey, I like that,” Paul smiled a wicked smile from the stool next to John’s. “Stukie, was it? Say it again, Johnny.”

“Come here, _Stukie_ ,” John followed, beckoning Stuart as if he were some sort of pet.

Stuart’s gaze hardened weakly. “Fuck off.” Paul had to bite down his tongue to stop himself from laughing. As if that pitiful excuse for a greaser could possibly threaten him properly.

“I said come here, Stukie.” John repeated himself, narrowing his eyes. Stuart sighed, knowing better than to fight him, and stood up, his hung posture hinting towards his exhaustion. “What do you want, John? Stop calling me that.”

“Just come.”

Stuart walked towards him and sat down in the barstool next to his. He tried to ignore Paul’s smug grin burrowing into the back of his head, but it made his ears burn with self-consciousness. “What’s that, anyway?” Stuart bit his lip nervously. “Stukie? Did you just come up with that? I don’t like it.”

 _Good_ , John and Paul thought in unison. John took his glasses off and slung his arm around Stuart’s narrow shoulders and laughed heartily. “Oi, don’t feel bad. Yeah, I came up with it. A new nickname, just for you. How ‘bout it?”

“No.” He looked away, trying to pay attention to some scantily clad drunk girls dancing themselves to death in the middle of the room. “It sounds more like a pet name than anything.”

 _Even better!_ Paul’s smile widened. “Oh, there’s more where that came from.”

Stuart hesitantly looked at him with wavering eyes. “... What?”

“ _Scootaloo_ ,” The pretty boy jabbed, pleased with himself for coming up with such a peculiar term.

“No!” Stuart hissed, glaring at him. “You twat!”

This sparked some sort of new name exchange between Lennon-McCartney. Some of them didn’t even make much sense—it wasn’t as if they were trying, anyway. They were drunk.

“Stukes.”

“Blooky.”

“Lukie?”

“Stewie.”

“Stundere.”

“Stucakes.”

The list went on and on. Stuart could only snap at them as they continued making up more names for him and laughing all the while.

“That’s it!” He snarled, standing up suddenly. “I’m done. I can’t bloody deal with you two anymore. If you need me, I’ll be at Astrid’s.” But just when he was about to step away, John grabbed him by the sleeve, staring at him coldly.

“... _Slutcliffe_.”

“Oh, come on.” Stuart groaned, trying to wrench his arm free. “I’ve heard that one before. It’s old. Let go of me. I’ve got things to do.”

John pulled him back. He smiled tightly. “Really, Stucakes? Ya sure ya don’t wanna stay?”

“I’m about as sure as the sky is blue! Now let me go! I’m not your _pet_!”

John looked at Paul and Paul looked at John and they found in each other’s gaze a similar sadistic scenario playing out in each other’s minds. Yes you are. On cue, John stood up and started dragging Stuart backstage.

“OI!” He yelped, struggling to escape. “Lemme go!” Paul took hold of the artist’s other arm, and the two teddies easily overpowered pitiful little Stu, manhandling him into the dressing rooms where they slept.

“FUCKIN’—” He gasped, thrashing about violently as Paul held his waist from behind and John stood in front of him with a frightening grin.

“ _Slutcliffe_ ,” He repeated, cupping the bassist’s cheekbones in his hands, lifting his head.

“Fuck. off.”

John narrowed his eyes. He looked up at Paul and nodded, who returned the gesture with an eager shimmer in his eyes. The pretty boy let go of Stuart’s waist and started tearing through the artist’s clothing.

“THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” Stuart screamed, trying to pull away. John laughed and held him as Paul tugged his black jacket off, followed by his sweater and shirt, exposing the skinny upper half of his body. “STOP IT! STOP IT, YOU FUCKING QUEER—”

John drunkenly kissed the poor shirtless thing, forcing him to cut off his threat. Stuart’s yells were muffled by the guitarist’s lips and tongue, filling his mouth with the hot taste of liquor. From behind him, Stuart could feel Paul’s alcohol-tarnished breath hot on his ear. “Stukie,” The pretty boy hissed.

“F-fuck you,” Stuart choked when John finally freed him. He was trying to catch his breath. “Fuck you both.”

“No. Fuck you.” John chuckled darkly. “Stukie.”

“Stop calling me that.”

Paul smirked, knowing the little bohemian was beginning to wear out. Sure enough, he’d be too exhausted to fight back. What then? Would he become submissive? Paul licked his lips. He hoped so. The thought of Stuart— _Stukie_ , now, apparently—being submissive to him, to them… it turned him on.

Suddenly, John took Stuart by the throat and pulled him forward onto one of the beds. The little bassist yelped, trying to escape him, though now with less vivacity than before. The auburnet pushed him down face-first into the sheets and undid his trousers and pants without so much as a fight.

Paul smiled and sat down on the bed. Stuart’s normally pale face was now a deep, burning red—whether from anger, humiliation, arousal, or all three at once, who knew.

“What do you feel like, Stukie?” John’s hands were creeping all over the runt’s exposed skin.

“Stop touching me…” Stuart groaned. Trying to regain some of his posture, he pushed himself up, now resting on his hands and knees. His head was bowed; strands of his dark hair fell over his face, disguising his expression. It seemed he wanted to reach up and punch his guitarist square in the jaw, but his young, throbbing erection told a different story.

Paul pulled his legs up onto the bed and kneeled in front of Stuart. He took Stuart’s jaw in his hand and lifted his head, directing the artist’s attention to the bulge in his jeans.

“If you think I’m going to let you force me to suck you off, think again.” Stuart spat, glaring at the guitarist.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Slutcliffe.” Paul pressed his lips together. He was impressed that little runt managed to figure out his intent. But it wouldn’t change anything. “In a moment, this cock’ll be in yer mouth, and I’ll make sure ye never forget what I taste like.”

Stuart closed his eyes, a shudder running through his body. “... John…?”

“You’ve got two holes, Stukie.” The auburnet smirked. “That’s yer mouth and yer ass. If Paul’s got yer mouth—”

“NO!” Stuart started squirming again, and the two guitarists had to pin him down against the mattress. “You aren’t going to fuck me! You can call me names, undress me, humiliate me; I can deal with that! But you aren’t going to _fuck_ me! It doesn’t work like that! I’ve had enough of your games! Let me go!”

“We’re going to fuck you.” John growled firmly.

“Johnny, _please_ …” Stuart gradually stopped struggling and looked up at him with a wide gaze.

“Don’t give me yer dirty puppy eyes, Stukie. We all wanna get off from this, and someone—you—has to be on the receiving end.”

“Why me?”

“Because.”

John and Paul eagerly undid their zips and took off their trousers and pants, but both kept their shirts on. Within a moment, three cocks were visible, all equally hard.

“... Could you be gentle…” Stuart’s lip was quivering. “... at least?”

Paul stared down expectantly. Stuart trembled a little, hesitantly opening his mouth just a little and taking the head of the brunet’s erection. Paul grabbed a fistful of his long, shiny hair and forced him to take him further, and Stuart let out a small, muffled cry. Meanwhile, John had been applying the lotion he kept underneath the mattress and lathering it on Stuart as well.

Then they were both inside of him, Paul already creating slow friction in Stuart’s throat. For every time he thrusted, a whimper would escape from Stuart, as much as it seemed he tried to stop himself. His noises grew louder when John began to work in and out, in and out; Stuart felt their bucks grow harder and harder until they were unraveling him at full force.

“ _Slutcliffe_ ,” John groaned, fingernails digging into his bassist’s hips, obviously enjoying the sight of the poor artist. Stuart felt something burning in his body, and he wanted to ask—no, beg John to slow down just a little, but Paul’s length was shoved in deep between his lips, turning his pleas into desperate, indecipherable moans. All the while, he was trying hard not to gag on the obstruction in his mouth. He found the taste to be salty and bitter and even sour, and it pulsed on his tongue like his heart in his chest.

“Fuck… yeah…!” Paul threw his head back; his voice was strained with lust and delight. “Shit, Stukie, yer’ jus’ as bad as giving head as you are at bass playing. But I’ll let this pass. It’s ‘cos yer’ an _amateur_ , right?”

Amateur. Stuart hated that word, and Paul knew it. It was such a degrading term, especially for someone who worked as hard as he did. It meant he loved his work, but could never be good enough to step up. Something clicks. Painting, bass playing, giving blowjobs to his snobby, sexy guitarist—shit, he would master it all if it meant Paul would just _shut the fuck up!_

Suddenly, his lips tighten around the circumference of the pretty boy’s throbber. Paul’s breath hitches, and Stuart finds himself doing more work than before—he’s breaking into a sweat now, and he feels flushed and humiliated to the last strand of his hair. But something about all this seems almost rewarding.

Then he remembers John Lennon is still doing his ass.

The burning sensation returns. Stuart moans loudly, voice still smothered by a brunet’s dick. John was thrusting into him even harder than before, being careless and cruel as the bastard he was. Why, _why_ the fuck did it hurt so much and feel so good? _How_ , even? _Harder, harder, you fucking bitch!_ Stuart wanted to scream.

“ _Stukie!_ ” John purred, his hand now wandering to the artist’s aching cock. Abrasive fingers skillfully wrap around the organ and begin to tease it mercilessly. Stuart whined, arching his back. _John, you cunt! Fuck, please…_ He could feel a smug energy radiating from the auburnet. John knows he has him. Shit.

Within a moment, something stirs in his abdomen. It’s hot and unforgiving, building up all over and inside his sweating body. The other two seem to receive it, too, because suddenly, John is fucking him faster, and his cursing grew louder, and Paul’s fingernails are digging relentlessly into his scalp. “Shite, Slutcliffe…!”

“Oh, yes…” John was pumping the bohemian’s cock now, willing Stuart to shoot first. Stuart cried out, and he could already feel the orgasm twisting in his crotch. _Please, please, please, oh God, don’t let me be first…_

But the teddy boy eagerly overwhelmed him with his filthy sensations and erotic tactics. Stuart tried so hard, he really did—but he convulses with pleasure, arching his back and rolling his eyes into the back of his head, and before he could process himself, steaming fluids were all over John’s hand, dripping down onto the bedsheets and down the inside of his thighs.

Paul was next: he pulled away just before he shot, his lips forming a perfect “Oh!” as he came into his bassist’s face. Stuart flinched, but the brunet was still clutching him by his hair so he wouldn’t miss. Now there were thick juices streaming down Stuart's cheeks, and he could taste it strongly as it trickled into his mouth. _God, this is so humiliating!_

Finally, John tensed, cursing as he gave one final force and let himself cum inside Stuart. The artist whimpered a little, but after a long, palpable moment, the guitarist pulled out. Immediately, Stuart collapses down onto the mattress, his chest heaving. He looked absolutely broken, devastated even, with aches all over his naked body and cum dripping down his face. The drone of post-orgasm filled the air.

“You look like a whore.” Paul panted, a grin plastered on his cheeks.

Stuart shut his eyes and growled. “... And whose fault is that…?”

John reached over and scruffed Stuart’s messy hair. “... Slutcliffe.”

“Can you stop?”

The guitarist smiled and rubbed Stuart’s back. “No… We can’t.”

Stuart paused for a moment, then wiped his face on the blanket, blinking something away. _Fuck, it didn’t get it my eyes, did it?_

He pulled himself to the side of the bed and tried to sit up, realizing when he couldn’t that he was still in pain—John and Paul had done a good job. He groaned. “Damn… damn you both…” Paul laughed.

“Got any plans for the rest of the day, Stucakes?” The pretty boy asked mischievously.

“Yeah, and none of them involve going through that again.” Stuart hissed. “Or sticking around just so you can call me names. I’m out.” He managed to scrap together his strength and stand up, staggering over to where his outfit had been thrown to the floor. He hastily reclothed himself, glaring at the two teddy boys on the bed. “See ya, Slutcliffe!” John called out as the artist went to leave the room. Just like that, Stukie was gone, leaving his god forsaken pet name behind as he continued for the real world beyond this filthy club—at least until he returned to play the next gig.

Stuart Fergusson Victor Sutcliffe.

Stuart F. V. Sutcliffe.

Stuart Sutcliffe.

Stuart.

Stu.

Stukie.


End file.
